


Heavy In My Soul

by rory_the_dragon



Series: Miles And Miles [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Ambiguously Underage, Bathroom Sex, Christmas fic, M/M, Non-Fairytale AU, Peter POV, Semi-Public Sex, The Lost Boys Are A Gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's got Henry pressed up against the sink in Wendy’s tiny bathroom, uncovered light flickering and swinging above them, and the sounds of the party outside leaking through the cracks around the door, which means the soft moans Peter's coaxing out of Henry can almost definitely be heard, but Henry is alcoholwarm under his hands, lips rubbed red with the spiked punch from the kitchen and there’s frosting smeared in the left corner of his mouth so Peter thinks he can be forgiven for his lack of restraint.</p><p>(Or: the one with The Lost Boys' Christmas party.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy In My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set in the Miles and Miles universe; An all human, no fairytale universe which still takes place in Storybrooke. The Lost Boys are a gang. Peter and Henry are in an established relationship. Wendy/Felix is also an established background relationship.
> 
> Set after Take Me Home, Where To Go, Early Morning Sun, and Seek You Out. I think. I'm going to have to sort out the timeline at some point.
> 
> Henry is 17 and Peter is 21.

 

Peter's got Henry pressed up against the sink in Wendy’s tiny bathroom, uncovered light flickering and swinging above them, and the sounds of the party outside leaking through the cracks around the door, which means the soft moans Peter's coaxing out of Henry can almost definitely be heard, but Henry is alcoholwarm under his hands, lips rubbed red with the spiked punch from the kitchen and there’s frosting smeared in the left corner of his mouth so Peter thinks he can be forgiven for his lack of restraint.

Henry’s laughing into his mouth, mouth open, wet, hands warm and slightly damp at Peter’s cheeks like he can’t not be holding onto him, and Peter would happily drown in him, chasing his mouth through his drunken giggles, licking into the taste of his mouth until Henry’s fucking _humming_ against him, eyes half-shut and lazy. He tastes like goddamn _cinnamon_.

Henry’s nails scrape at the nape of his neck, desperate, the only point of contact between them that isn’t soft as they trade sloppy kisses, punchdrunk and warm.

Peter’s still marginally sober, but Henry’s been giddy for a while now, courtesy of Wendy and her deadly as sin punch she concocts every year. Better men than Henry have fallen to it. They've all had years to build up some semblance of immunity to it, or at the very least learnt to say no when Wendy, gleeful, offers you a third mug. But this is Henry's first time, first Christmas with them.

It's their first Christmas together.

Peter had watched from Wendy's crappy couch as Henry's gestures had gotten larger and wilder, his cheeks flushing brighter, his laugh growing louder, more infectious, completely distracted from whatever conversation he was having with Felix until he'd eventually found himself with a lapful of his drunken boyfriend, wrapped up in the most hideous sweater Peter’s ever seen and looking like dessert with wide eyes and a wider smile just for Peter.

It hadn't taken long for Henry to get handsy, less time for Peter to grow hard in his jeans from the attention Henry was giving his neck, sloppy kisses and scraping teeth, even less for Felix's smirk to grow beyond bearing and for Peter to hitch Henry up around his hips and take him out.

"More trouble that you're worth," He gets out, bites down on Henry's bottom lip, sucks on it until Henry's _keening_ , ridiculously sensitive right now, and Peter swallows the sound, chases it until he’s got a hand threaded through Henry’s hair, can feel Henry pulling him in closer, closer, heels digging into the small of his back.

“Liar,” Henry draws back to say, face breaking into a grin so wide that it dimples his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. Peter’s ninety per cent certain that Henry’s just looking at a Peter-shaped blur, but something in his eyes is still sharp, focused, even as he sways happily back in to Peter’s mouth, and Peter catches him, tips his head, drinking him in.

His other hand works its way under Henry’s hideous jumper, slipping beneath the shirt beneath and pressing against the curve of Henry’s spine. Henry’s skin is damp, too warm, slick against Peter’s hand.

“Watch where you’re putting your hands,” Henry admonishes, pulling away far enough to frown at him, face breaking out in a ridiculous smile before he can even fully manage it. Fuck, Henry’s an adorable drunk, Peter’s going to have to get Wendy a better present.

He grins. “I am,” and moves his hand to rest against Henry’s belt buckle. fingertips pushing at the small gap of flesh between his jeans and his jumper. Henry groans, and Peter takes the opportunity of his exposed neck to mouth at the not-quite-neck, not-quite-shoulder crease, scrape his teeth across the skin.

“There’s…” Henry starts, cuts himself off with a choked sound Peter would kill several men to hear replicated. “There’s a party going on about six feet away.” He finishes but it doesn’t really hold much weight when he’s helping Peter lift the monstrosity of a jumper - who on earth dressed him this morning? - up and over his head, throwing it into the corner of the tiny bathroom.

“You could try being quiet for once?” Peter suggests, laughs when Henry’s already red cheeks darken and he slaps at his chest. “Or not. Doesn’t matter to me. But if I don’t get my hand around your cock in the next thirty seconds then _I’m_ going to scream.”

It’s only fair to give him warning, Peter feels.

Most, if not all, of his Lost Boys are in the next room, the music’s not loud enough to cover anything, and Peter’s pretty sure that Wendy’s going to figure out where they’ve gone in about three minutes and come banging on the door, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck right now when Henry makes a deep noise of approval and widens his legs, leans back to give Peter access as his fingers make quick work of Henry’s buckle, button, zip, until he’s pulling them down, boxers and all, to Henry’s thighs and fuck if Peter’s ever seen anything hotter than Henry Mills spread across Wendy’s sink, lips absolutely _destroyed_ and eyes trained on Peter like a challenge. He looks fucking debauched, and Peter’s hardly done anything yet.

That doesn’t last long. As soon as Peter’s fingers tighten around his cock, Henry’s _arching_ , hands shooting out to scrabble at Peter’s shoulders, his back, and Peter could get drunk off of this, of the way Henry goes pliant in his arms like he trusts him, the way he stretches his neck up to muffle his moans against Peter’s mouth and Peter swallows every one, twists his hand up until Henry makes a too-loud noise, bucks _up_ into Peter’s hand.

Henry’s warm and solid in his hand, and Peter breaks away from Henry’s mouth to duck his head, watch as Henry’s cock disappear over and over and over again between his fingers, the pale skin of his abdomen and thighs flooding with a fresh tinge of burning pink, muscles spasming as his hips cant. Peter slips his other hand around Henry’s waist, holds him steady, grounds him, always always so shocked when Henry calms to his touch, and rests his forehead against Henry’s open collar, pushes his skin into the sweat collecting there.

“ _Fuck, Henry_ ,” is all he can manage.

Henry’s panting, hot, wet gasps of breath against Peter’s ear, and his fingertips are leaving bruises in the flesh of Peter’s shoulders. His hips are rocking into Peter’s grip and when Peter finally lifts his head up, his eyes are dilated, smudged with _need_ and Peter’s going to come, untouched, just at the sight of him if he doesn’t get his act together right now.

He releases Henry, tries to ignore the utterly wrecked sound of protest Henry makes and fails, scrabbling blindly for the snap on his own jeans as he presses off-angle kisses to Henry’s mouth. He’s been hard since Henry started fooling around on the couch, and he hisses as he frees himself from his boxers, takes both of them in hand. His hand isn’t really wide enough, but the friction of sliding against Henry, messy and without rhythm, is unbeatable.

It’d be embarrassing how little time it takes for Peter to shudder, bite down on Henry’s neck and _come_ like it’s painful, like he’s dying, if he didn’t make sure Henry got there first, drawing Henry’s orgasm out of him until Henry shouts, loud, too loud, and slants into Peter, drunk and wrung out.

That...got out of hand, very quickly.

Wendy is going to kill them.

Peter mutters this into Henry’s sweat-slick hair, feels Henry laugh weakly against him. They don’t move for a good thirty seconds, breathing heavily against each other until the sweat on the back of Peter’s neck cools in the air. His shirt is absolutely ruined, Henry’s too, they really should have thought this through better.

He unbuttons Henry’s shirt, taking it off of Henry’s shoulders without assistance because Henry’s still in the dazed post-orgasm stage and Peter’s not about to ruin that, and strips off his own shirt. He crumples them together into a ball and throws them into the laundry bin, not moving from his position of propping Henry up until Henry’s able to get his legs under him, slide down to the floor. They button themselves up in silence, as if being quiet now can make up for the fact that _everyone_ in the party outside has definitely heard them, but Henry catches Peter’s eye and grins, sheepish, and Peter’s laughing before he can stop himself.

Peter’s never felt so deliriously happy before Henry, and it still catches him somewhere around the middle every time he realises just what Henry does to him.

Henry jumper is salvageable, recovered from where they abandoned it, and Henry slips it on, looks up at Peter and says, “Well?” as if he doesn’t very well _know_ that he looks like a trainwreck of sex and alcohol, hair mussed beyond saving and lips bruised red, Peter’s teeth marks at his neck. He’s not swaying as much as before, sobering up, Peter hopes, because a hangover courtesy of Wendy’s punch is a fate he wishes on no one.

Just for a second Peter wishes they were anywhere else but here, wishes he could stretch Henry out across his bed for rounds two and three, keep him there til morning and wake up with him Christmas day, wishes he didn't have to give him back.

Maybe Henry senses the change in mood, because he pulls Peter back in by his belt loops, and the kid's getting taller, Peter doesn't have to duck his head as much as he used to at the beginning. The kiss is soft, chaste, and it lingers on Peter's lips even after Henry pulls away, rubs his nose against Peter's, and Peter’s hand darts up to clasp at the back of Henry’s neck, hold him there so Peter can _breathe_.

“Go on,” He whispers after a while, after his breathing and Henry’s have synced up. “I need to find a shirt. Felix should have one around here somewhere.”

“So you’re throwing me to the wolves?” Henry jokes, just as soft, and Peter’s lips quirk.

“Just a bit.”

“Traitor.”

“Lost Boy,” He corrects, lets Henry go with one last brush of their lips.

He waits twenty seconds, until he can hear the wolf-whistles and cat-calls that mean Henry’s re-entered the main room, smiles when he imagines the blush that will be scorching across his boy’s cheeks, and slips out of the bathroom, heading further back into the apartment until he finds Wendy’s room.

It’s dark, quiet, and smells of Wendy’s washing powder, and it’s so ridiculously comforting that his knees give out under him and he sinks down onto the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look up until a shadow falls across his face, the dim light of the door blocked out, and he looks up to see Felix propped against the doorframe, silent.

It’s remarkable how much Peter can breathe in the presence of Felix.

The shirt of Felix’s he’s found hangs between his hands, and he holds it up. “Do you mind?”

Felix waves a hand.

“Thanks.”

“Boss?” Peter looks up. Felix is watching him carefully, like he’s about to explode any second, shudder and tremble his way off the edge. “Happy Christmas.”

Peter can’t stop the quiet huff of laughter he exhales, hangs his head for a second before lifting it again, and Felix is smiling, slight in the darkness, but it's there. Because there's never been a time that Felix couldn't look at Peter and see what was wrong. From the Boys' Home to the streets to now, Felix just  _knows_ Peter. Knows when to hold him back and when to turn him loose, when to speak and when to be silent. And right now, 'Happy Christmas' is all Peter needs to hear to quell the rising ocean in his chest, soothe the edges Henry always _always_ exposes, turn the tide of panic into a simple buzzing of simple, absolutely normal, pre-present nerves.

Peter nods, stands. "Alright." He claps a hand to Felix's shoulder, holds it there, and Felix rests his hand on the back of Peter's neck, steadying him.

There is a key wrapped in ribbon in Peter’s back pocket, and a boy in the other room who’s waiting for it.

Peter can do this.

 


End file.
